


Misteltoe

by stateofintegrity



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:40:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28219359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stateofintegrity/pseuds/stateofintegrity
Summary: Takes place after "Death Takes a Holiday." Max does some quiet decorating and gets a gift.
Relationships: Maxwell Klinger/Charles Emerson Winchester III
Comments: 4
Kudos: 10





	Misteltoe

“Further etymology is uncertain, but may be related to the Germanic base for 'mash’” - on Mistletoe 

In the O Club, Margaret, BJ, and Hawkeye drank to the life they had felt slip through their hands. They sang low and soft and sad, but they sang because they  _ lived _ . 

In his tent, Mulcahy prayed for the ascendant soul of the sniper-slain soldier.  _ Go in peace. Find rest.  _

In the mess, Colonel Sherman T. Potter saw the face of his child and grandchildren in the faces of the orphans who climbed his knees. It made the holiday both more joyful and more painful at once. 

In his tent, Klinger shivered under his fur and combed his hair out before bed. It was starting to get long in the back again. 

“You should have asked Saint Nicholas for a new brush,” Charles said, coming up behind him. 

The handle on the bristle brush  _ was _ broken, but Klinger just shrugged. He was used to makeshift - or to plain doing without. 

Charles held out a hand; Klinger watched him in the mirror. “May I?” 

“Only if it’s not because of the food, Major. I didn’t do it to  _ get  _ something.” 

“Call it a gift, Max.” 

Klinger trembled. What he might do to get Charles to say his name… the Major’s pronunciation of it had echoed with him in - in him - after he’d left him to his dinner. He hadn’t expected to see him again tonight, never mind feel one of his hands settle on his shoulder, the other guiding the brush. He couldn’t call him Charles again. He just couldn’t. He stumbled on the warmth of it the first time, those nearly lilac eyes looking up at him… 

Charles had felt Klinger stiffen under his touch. However, after ten strokes of that brush- his hair crackling a bit in the dry air - the little Corporal had relaxed so completely, Charles half-expected to see him slide out of the chair. He clocked his gentle respirations at something like seven breaths a minute. It seemed, somehow, that there was no better gift he could offer Maxwell Q. Klinger than this one: his quiet presence, this rhythmic ritual that allowed him to rise into his upward strokes like a cat. 

“You have mistletoe in your hair.” 

“Uh huh.”

“I always like it when you wear your flowers, but is that quite safe?”

Klinger grinned at him in the mirror. “As long as I stay away from Post Op and Captain Pierce, sure.” 

“I would imagine that you would find yourself quite mobbed.”  _ Your small, pretty mouth quite bruised _ . “Perhaps you would be wise to save this look for your tent,” he brushed the waxy, dark leaves, “Or our date.” 

“Major?”

“Max?”

“You really asking, sir?” 

“Mmm-hmm.”

“I’ll definitely wear the mistletoe for you then,” he said, voice small, grateful. “Any other requests?” 

“Whatever makes you happiest, darling.” Then he pressed his lips to his dark hair. “Bold though it might be, I do hope, one day, that it might be me.” 

And then he placed the brush on Klinger’s lap and left. Straightening the floral decoration behind his ear, Klinger whistled “It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas,” and felt warm for the first time that winter. 

End!


End file.
